Living with Darkness

The presence of evil has lingered in my life for as long as I can recall.

In my dreams, unsettling figures often visit—ghostly beings, ominous spirits, and, at times, the figure of the devil himself. Are these disturbances a form of spiritual assault? Or perhaps they stem from the chaotic environment I grew up in?

Like the character Piper Laurie portrayed in *Carrie*, my mother would tower over me, demanding I kneel and berating me vehemently. “Humble yourself before me!” she’d scream. “Damn, be humble!”

Maybe it’s a mix of both. Maybe the moral instability that plagued my parents was something akin to demonic influence.

Beliefs under Siege

My faith in God is shaky, but I find myself inching closer to believing in a darker force. It’s a perplexing stance, I know. It comes from someone who embraced atheism after facing harsh punishment as a child and later branded himself as a “born atheist.”

Regardless, fear and intrigue about the supernatural have been constants in my life. I’ve been captivated by eerie tales, particularly those found in Victorian ghost story collections by authors like E.F. Benson, M.R. James, and Elizabeth Gaskell.

One person who also shares this interest is English podcaster Tony Walker. His classic ghost story podcast is something I found worthwhile enough to actually pay for. His storytelling is so compelling that I can’t fathom why he’s not making a fortune narrating audiobooks.

Think about it: women in veils weeping as they glide down hallways, brides hitchhiking amid the rain, or a ghost vanishing from a passenger seat at a cemetery. I mean, there’s even an old tale where the spirit of children who died in an accident gently nudges your car, steering you away from a similar fate. Spooky, right?

Seeking Belief

Growing up in the late 20th century, I was saturated with shows about cryptids, extraterrestrials, and ghost encounters. I spent countless hours with a library card, diving into books that chronicled everything from Bigfoot to the Bermuda Triangle.

Have you ever heard about a moving coffin in Barbados? It’s chilling. A wealthy family, after losing a member, would find their coffins wildly shifted every time they opened their family vault. Some say a flood was to blame, but there’s zero evidence of it. Odd, isn’t it?

Speaking of eerie tales, the story of the *Brown Lady of Raynham Hall* is unforgettable. Those with even a passing interest in ghosts have likely seen that iconic photo of a spectral figure descending a staircase in a historical mansion.

According to the photographers who took it in 1936, they were astounded to spot this veiled figure and managed to snap the shot just in time. Was that woman really Mrs. Dorothy Walpole, confined against her will by her jealous husband? Or simply a clever double exposure? Back then, camera tricks weren’t as widely known, and many believed photographs captured the truth.

I want to believe it. There’s something both enchanting and oddly sentimental about the idea that a thin veil separates our world from that of the deceased—and that this veil might lighten during certain moments.

Elusive Joy

But there’s also a possibility that spirits exist—those who refuse to accept their fates, dwelling alongside genuine demons. If such a realm exists and is inhabited by dark forces, well, that raises unsettling questions. Sometimes, I question if I even want to believe in such things; it definitely leaves me uneasy.

When I was eight, my family made an unusual trip to an Italian restaurant on Christmas Eve. Money was tight, and while I longed for gifts, simply being out felt like a treat. As we walked, I spotted the brightest star illuminating the night.

“Mom, look!” I exclaimed, tugging at her sleeve and accidentally knocking her cigarette from her hand. “That’s the star of Jesus! The one that guided the wise men!”

That moment felt transcendent, a joy beyond measure.

Yet, my mother dismissed it with a scoff. “Oh, no, Josh, it’s just a star. Probably Venus,” she retorted.

Embarrassed, I fell silent for the rest of the evening, feeling foolish and naive. That feeling has lingered with me over the years. My mother often played the role of an embittered victim who felt persecuted by God.

I eventually convinced her to accompany me to the church where I was baptized for a Christmas service, but she spent the trip home ranting about “hypocritical Christians” and lamenting how she struggled to make ends meet.

The Monster of Motherhood

It wasn’t until my forties that I fully grasped my fascination with sinister characters in films like *Carrie*. Based on Stephen King’s first novel, it tells the haunting tale of a girl with telekinesis who is tormented by a monstrous mother.

Many will recall Piper Laurie’s performance as the fanatical Margaret White, who grapples with her inner demons while striving to impose her twisted moral code on her daughter. Margaret believes her sins are inextricable from her daughter, whom she views through the lens of her own guilt and despair.

During their most harrowing scenes, Margaret beats Carrie, forces her to confess unearned guilt, and even locks her in a small space for “prayer.” The dining room scene impacts me the most—where she yells at Carrie to kneel, echoing the line about how God unleashed a raven called Sin.

“Say it, woman! Say it!” she cries. “Eve was weak!”

Margaret enacts a destructive version of motherhood on Carrie, a dynamic that resonates deeply with my own experiences. Like Carrie, I was forced to kneel under my mother’s harsh gaze while she yelled, demanding my subservience. “Humble yourself before me!” she would howl. “Damn, be humble!”

In truth, my mother sought worship, not respect. She fashioned herself as a deity in her own right.

Obsessed with Dread

I prayed for clarity for my mother, but quieted my longings. Dark forces seem prevalent, and simply saying I’m haunted doesn’t begin to capture it.

Things that frighten equally intrigue. I’ve felt that dread many times through films like *Carrie* and narratives like *Dear Mammy*. They’re like toxic sweets that, though painful, keep drawing one back for more.

I’m still uncertain about my beliefs regarding God, the soul, or any afterlife.

What I Witnessed

No Halloween discussion would feel complete without recounting a personal experience that defied explanation. It’s something I’ve never shared before. Admittedly, I was partly inebriated when it occurred, but I can affirm that something happened.

This was back in 1992. I was 18 and living with my friend, Lisa. One evening, I headed to the kitchen for a beer and placed the bottle on a tray that I had taken from my workplace.

Now, I consider myself quite dexterous—I could carry several meals at once without spilling. But just as I went to step into the living room, one of the bottles suddenly toppled over with a loud thud, almost as if someone had flung it down.

This was no typical accidental spill. The tray had a rubberized bottom, making it unlikely for a glass to slide off, let alone tip over. I was stone-cold sober. The other items on the tray stayed perfectly still.

A few minutes later, the same thing happened with another bottle that was seated safely on the side table. My mind raced. Could this be real? Or had I somehow been deceived?

I remember telling myself in that moment, “What you just observed did indeed happen. You weren’t drunk, and you didn’t hallucinate.” But I’ve gradually convinced myself otherwise; how easy it is to doubt one’s own experiences.

As I recount this tale, I still wrestle with self-doubt. Yet, I also hold onto that memory for its clarity; I know, in my heart, I was not imagining things.

Happy Halloween.